


Paparazzi

by MandalaRose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Billionaire Castiel, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, Castiel is basically Bill Gates, Closeted Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Crowley is a dick, F/F, Famous Castiel (Supernatural), Famous Dean Winchester, Forced coming out, Happy Ending, Ice Hockey Player Dean Winchester, M/M, Pansexual Castiel (Supernatural), Software Developer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23521735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MandalaRose/pseuds/MandalaRose
Summary: Red-blooded, All-American, slightly closeted hockey star Dean Winchester is no stranger to fame...or the drawbacks that come with it, like the constant, mosquito-like presence of the paparazzi. That's why he'scareful. That's why he's never been caught leaving a party with another guy...or going back to the guy's house...or spending the night with the guy...or borrowing the guy's clothes the next morning and doing the walk of shame with last night's tux tossed over his shoulder like he's some male-modeling son of a bitch in a GQ spread.Until now.And maybe Dean would have gotten away with it. Maybe. If the guy wasn't billionaire tech mogul and household name Castiel Fucking Novak.But now Dean's on a shitty late-night talk show, facing down a poor man's James Corden, a couple of pretty damning paparazzi photos, and his future.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Kaia Nieves/Claire Novak
Comments: 223
Kudos: 1061
Collections: SPN Best Works, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	Paparazzi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YeahWhoCares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YeahWhoCares/gifts).



> Hi everyone! I just can't stay away!
> 
> I hope you are all continuing to be safe and well throughout all of this and appreciate my humble offering to ye fanfic gods of olde, in the hopes that they will quell this fucking bullshit pandemic so we can all go outside without feeling the need to hold our breath and not have to talk to our friends and neighbors from opposite sides of the grocery aisle like eighth graders at a school dance. Amen.
> 
> This is just a bit of fluff and smut that I wrote off a FB prompt from the lovely [YeahWhoCares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YeahWhoCares). Thanks for the prompt, dear! It was delightfully distracting. I hope you enjoy what I came up with! 
> 
> Thanks also to the best beta ever, the truly talented [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz). Someday I'm going to learn how to use ellipses and em dashes correctly and spare her poor fingers so much backspacing!
> 
> The original prompt is spoilery, so I'll put it in the end notes.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Ow! Shit.”

Dean swears quietly as he trips over what turns out to be a _very_ expensive-looking Louboutin Oxford. Seriously? Who leaves $800 shoes just lying strewn about the bedroom? Dean glances toward the bed and smirks to himself. Okay, sure, the owner of said shoe might have been a little distracted last night as they stumbled toward the bed, ditching clothing along the way, but still. Dean had at least taken the time to hang his tuxedo jacket on the back of a chair and tuck his own, considerably less expensive Oxfords underneath, but apparently software moguls can afford to ruin designer clothing without a second thought.

Speaking of which, Dean finally locates what he’s been looking for, his own starched white button-down from the night before…now feeling stiff for an entirely different reason.

 _Goddammit!_ Did that asshole really use _his_ Ralph Lauren dress shirt for clean-up last night? Gucci-wearing fucker. It’s a good thing the bastard is sexy enough to get away with, well, pretty much anything as far as Dean’s concerned. Wadding up the soiled dress shirt and folding his rumpled dress slacks (which he’d already retrieved from atop the ornate, waist-high ceramic vase next to the doorway of the ensuite bathroom that’s nearly as large as the master in Dean’s Dallas loft), Dean looks over his shoulder at the man still sleeping soundly on Egyptian cotton sheets.

Lying on his stomach, one arm draped protectively over his pillow, he faces away from Dean, toward the floor-to-ceiling window that takes up most of the far wall. Dean would feel sadder about not getting one last look at the scruff-covered jawline he can still feel the burn of against his thighs and those soft pink lips he remembers seeing stretched around his cock last night, were it not for the view he gets instead.

Dark brown tufts of hair stick out at all angles, softened from sleep, most of yesterday’s product worn away by the pillowcase and Dean’s fingers. Below that, an expanse of lithe, muscled back stretches out across the king-size mattress, dipping down to a trim waist, then rising again with the swell of the most gorgeous ass Dean’s ever had the pleasure of groping, just barely covered by the charcoal bedsheet.

Dean’s one lucky son of a bitch.

Licking dry lips, Dean tears his eyes away from the bed before he can do something completely irresponsible like crawl back in it and press his quickly hardening dick against the crest of that impeccable ass. The sun will soon be rising beyond the heavily tinted window glass and he has a plane to catch. Turning toward the door, Dean makes his way to the long, white dresser with its sharp, modern lines, still clad in nothing but his boxer briefs. Glancing guiltily back at the bed, he opens the bottom two dresser drawers, digging around until he finds something suitable. With a small noise of triumph, he pulls on the faded AC/DC t-shirt and sweats, before gathering up his shoes and clothing and tip-toeing out of the bedroom.

He stops in the mansion’s (because calling this place a “house” would be laughable) massive kitchen to slip on his Oxfords. This room is also all hard lines and sharp angles, its white marble countertops framed by rectangular pillars in black marble and another wall of floor-to-ceiling tinted glass overlooking the twinkling lights of Palo Alto. Thinking of the diamond-cut jawline and rock-hewn hipbones he left behind in the master suite, Dean decides it’s fitting. And beyond the physical compliments, this modern mansion in its monochrome marble palette is exactly where he’d imagine a sex-god turned billionaire-computer-geek to live.

Dean’s leaning against the cool marble-topped island, smirking tiredly at his reflection in the blue glass-fronted cabinets when a voice from the hall makes him jump and turn.

“Hello, Dean. Were you really going to sneak out without saying goodbye?” A dark eyebrow arches as six-feet of sexy-brilliant tech billionaire folds his arms and leans against the counter, looking Dean up and down appreciatively. “And wearing my clothes?”

Dean’s suddenly grateful the sweatpants he snagged are black and not gray, allowing him to keep at least a tiny shred of his dignity intact as he clears his throat awkwardly and answers, “Uh, mornin’ Cas. Didn’t wanna wake you up.” Rolling his eyes and aiming for nonchalance, he adds, “And I was gonna have the clothes returned.”

Stepping into Dean’s space, Cas leans over him, penning Dean in with his hands on the countertop and pressing their hips together. “Or you could just stay a while,” he rumbles in a sleep-rough voice that’s somehow even deeper now than it was last night after three whiskeys, pausing to mouth at Dean’s throat, teeth grazing his pulse point, before he adds, “I think I’m much more partial to that t-shirt with you in it.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean breathes, tilting his head back to give Cas more access, even as he regretfully adds, “As promising as that sounds, sweetheart, I can’t. I don’t mean to be a cliché, walk-of-shamin’ it with the sunrise, but I got a flight to catch in a couple hours.”

Huffing a resigned sigh against Dean’s neck, Cas pulls back far enough to meet Dean’s eyes. “Can I at least make you a cup of coffee for the road?” he asks petulantly and Dean has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from grinning. Instead, he arches an eyebrow of his own.

“You could,” he says, dropping his eyes suggestively to where short dark hairs trail downward from Cas’ navel, disappearing under the waistband of his dangerously low-riding navy sleep pants. “But,” Dean bucks his hips, using the momentum to flip the other man around and reverse their positions so that it’s Dean pressing Cas up against the countertop, “I think I got something better than coffee to wake us up.”

Cas’ eyebrows shoot up in pleased surprise as Dean sinks to his knees on the cold tile floor. He’s going to regret this when he’s back on the ice running training drills tomorrow morning, but for now, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Widening his stance, Cas uses both hands to grip the black-streaked marble behind him. Smirking, Dean slowly unties the drawstring on Cas’ sleep pants before lowering the elastic waistband. His mouth waters and he bites his lip to hold back a groan at the way Cas’ heavy, more-than-half-filled cock bobs free between them, lilting slightly to the left, conveniently angled toward Dean’s lips. A few firm strokes from Dean’s right hand brings Cas to full hardness with Dean smirking up at him from below.

“Feel good?” he asks teasingly, deliberately slowing his strokes.

“It’d feel better if your mouth was doing something more useful than talking,” Cas retorts and Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Bossy.”

Without warning, Dean wraps his lips around Cas’ cock and swallows him down to the root, angling his head back so Cas can fill his mouth completely, the blunt head of his cock hitting the back of Dean’s throat.

“Fuck.” Now it’s Cas’ turn to swear as Dean pulls nearly all the way off before swallowing him down again. Drawing back slightly, Dean begins to focus less on deep-throating and more on technique, using every combination he knows of lips, tongue, and hands to bring Cas ever closer to the edge.

“Christ, your fucking mouth,” the man above him moans and Dean redoubles his efforts, looking up at Cas, who stares back down at him, an expression of wonder on his stubbled face. Dean knows this is a good look on him: on his knees, looking up through long, thick eyelashes envied by women everywhere, full lips stretched around a thick cock.

Of course, Dean can’t really complain about the view he has either. Cas’ bedhead is as wild as it was when Dean left him asleep twenty minutes ago, sticking out around his head in a soft halo that’s just begging for Dean’s fingers, and that normally dry, pink bottom lip is glossy and reddened now from the way he’s been biting it. The poor guy looks half like he wants to get a fist in Dean’s hair (which Dean would in no way object to) and half like he needs to keep his death grip on the countertop in order to stay upright.

Cas finally seems to gather himself enough to take one hand off the edge of the countertop, fingers threading through Dean’s hair. Dean starts taking Cas deeper again, both hands gripping the man’s hips and fingers digging into the globes of that gorgeous backside as he pulls Cas in, again and again.

Long fingers tighten on the short strands of Dean’s hair. “Fuck, I’m gonna…” Not giving the other man a chance to finish (talking, that is), Dean relaxes his throat and sucks Cas all the way down again, this time swallowing around that thick length. Cas lets out a shout and Dean swallows again, reflexively this time, but to no less effect.

Hand moving from Dean’s hair to his shoulder for support, Cas doubles over, coming down Dean’s throat as sunlight begins to seep through the tinted glass behind him, the hazy outline of the San Francisco Bay just barely visible.

* * *

“Thanks, man.” Dean tips the driver of the SUV Cas called for him generously. He knows the guy’s job with a car service this fancy is just as dependent on his discretion as it is his skills as a chauffeur, but he figures a little monetary incentive can’t hurt.

Straightening with a final nod to the driver of the black SUV, Dean turns to begin his, now literal, walk-of-shame, tossing the garment bag containing yesterday’s clothes over his right shoulder. He’d had the car service drop him off a couple blocks away from his hotel in the interest of avoiding any early-morning paparazzi who might be curious about a well-known NHL player rolling up to the main entrance carrying last night’s suit and wearing borrowed clothes. Not that Dean couldn’t (and hadn’t before) come up with any number of explanations for that, but he’d rather not today…especially not pre-coffee.

Speaking of, Dean makes a beeline for the Starbucks he spies on the next street corner. He hesitates before entering the coffeeshop, casting a rueful glance down at his black sweat pants and brown Oxfords, before shrugging. Fuck it. He looks like an idiot, sure, but he’d rather be a caffeinated idiot. As much as Dean thoroughly enjoyed he and Cas’ early morning exploits, he probably should have taken him up on that offer of coffee. Blowjobs or not, Dean’s just not properly awake until he’s had at least two cups.

Americano now in-hand, Dean finally makes his way back to his hotel. After more than half a decade in the spotlight, he’s become something of an expert at eluding paparazzi and he’s fairly certain he’s managed to avoid the goddamn vultures as he slips in a side door. He’s probably being overly cautious. Being an NHL player isn’t exactly the same as being an A-List celebrity, even if Dean does garner more attention than most. Still though, paps can smell a scandal from a mile away, so it never hurts to be careful.

He’s only in the hotel long enough to grab a quick shower, repack his suitcase, and check-out before taking another paid car service to the airport. Thankfully, security actually moves and Dean makes it to his gate with a whole ten minutes to spare before his plane boards.

He spends the time sorting through his (somewhat intoxicated) memories from the night before. His blood heats up as he remembers stumbling drunkenly through Cas’ house. He’s still not sure how they managed to make it all the way to the bedroom, given that it’s clear on the opposite side of the goddamn mansion from the front door. Actually, they nearly hadn’t made it, Dean recalls. As soon as their car had driven off, Cas had pressed him up against the wooden double doors and tried to go down on him right there…until Dean grabbed his lapels and hauled him back upright.

 _“Dude, you have_ cameras _out here_.”

_“Where’s your sense of adventure, Dean?”_

_“Hold that thought till we get to your bedroom and I’ll show you just how_ adventurous _I can be.”_

After that, Cas had punched in his security code and practically dragged Dean to his—oh, that’s right. That’s how. Dean grins. He’d damn well made good on that promise of adventure, too.

The flight from San Francisco International Airport to LAX takes a little over an hour and a half. Taking deep breaths through his nose as the plane taxis to the gate (Fuck, he hates flying. Why didn’t he just rent a goddamn car and drive, again?), Dean switches his phone off airplane mode and slips it back into his pocket, closing his eyes against the nausea still rolling through him. He feels the phone buzzing with missed calls and text messages, but ignores it. It’s probably Sam, demanding to know what the hell happened last night and giving him shit for disappearing without so much as a “see you later,” but no way can he deal with his well-intentioned moose of a brother right now. He’ll call him back later. Sam will understand.

Dean’s got just enough time to get checked into his hotel and take another quick shower (because airport germs, ew) before heading to the studio. All said and done, less than seven hours after waking up in Cas’ Palo Alto bedroom this morning, he’s 350 miles away, dressed in a clean suit and sitting in the green room of _The Crossroads_ , a late-night talk show hosted by Fergus Crowley.

“You’re up, Winchester.” Dean looks up from the magazine article on the upcoming Olympics he’d been perusing and meets the eyes of the same snarky production assistant who’d brought him to the green room earlier. He raises his eyebrows at her near-disdainful tone and gets an exaggerated eyebrow raise and gesture at the door in return. Letting out a resigned huff, he stands and follows the PA, _Meg_ , he remembers, toward the stage.

“Isn’t part of your job to be pleasant to the guests?” Dean asks irritably as he follows Meg down the hall.

She snorts. “God, no. Crowley likes his ‘guests’ a little shaken up before he gets at them. Makes it easier to get ’em talking.” She looks Dean over, a shark-like grin on her heart-shaped face. “Find out what secrets might be ready to _come out._ ” Dean shifts uncomfortably at her phrasing, which judging by her smirk, doesn’t go unnoticed.

Meg opens her mouth to respond, but is thankfully interrupted by a soft buzzing from her pocket. Dean tries not to let his relief show as the PA turns to the side, pressing a button on her headset.

“Masters. Oh, hey Clarence.” Meg shoots Dean a grin while talking to whoever this ‘Clarence’ on the other end of her call is. “I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you today.” Stopping several feet away from the doorway that will lead them on-set and to Dean’s mark as he awaits his cue to join Crowley onstage for his interview, Meg continues her conversation. “Who? Oh, right. No, I’m afraid you just missed him.”

Dean opens his mouth to ask Meg if he should go on through, but she holds up a curt finger, silencing him. “I do have another idea though. Call you back in five?”

Ignoring Dean’s silent glare, Meg says her goodbyes before ushering him on-set, muttering, “I better get that goddamn promotion after this.” He’s about to ask what the hell she’s talking about when he hears Crowley’s voice carrying over the sounds of applause from the studio audience.

“Join me in welcoming to _The Crossroads_ , well-known philanthropist and high-scoring Dallas Stars’ forward, not to mention the most charming and dare I say, _handsome_ NHL player in the league, if only because he still has all his own teeth: _Dean Winchester.”_ The applause ratchets up a notch and Dean can hear the smirk in Crowley’s voice as he adds, “And let’s do go easy on him, pets. After all, it’s his first time.”

“Break a leg, Winchester.” Meg smirks, shoving him in the direction of the stage. “Figuratively, literally, I don’t really care, so long as it gets good ratings.”

Striding onto the stage with a wave and a fixed smile, Dean wonders, for what must be the hundredth time, if this was a huge mistake. Fergus Crowley is known for going off-script and pulling more from his guests than they ever intended to share. The man has been after Dean for years, sending _Crossroads_ ’ producers to beg, bribe, and sometimes even subtly threaten him into agreeing to an interview. He only agreed this time because in addition to offering to promote Dean’s newest charity, Crowley also offered both his own donation and sizable donations from several of the prominent companies that advertise on _The Crossroads_. That level of investment could make a huge difference in the lives of the kids supported by Dean’s new project. After more than five years of pursuing him, the smarmy British bastard had finally found Dean’s price.

And so here Dean is in his navy suit, jacket open and the first two buttons of his white shirt undone, projecting an air of confidence he doesn’t quite feel and trying to act unbothered by the smug Brit leaning over the solid, black desk to shake his hand. Crowley looks more like a shady, half-rate salesman than a talk show host in his pinstriped suit, but he smiles warmly at Dean’s approach. Taking Dean’s hand in both of his as they shake, Crowley pulls him in (well, more like down given the fact that Dean’s a good four inches taller) for the standard Hollywood cheek kiss Dean doesn’t usually mind, but for some reason with this guy leaves him feeling like he just sealed a deal with the devil.

“Hello, darling,” Crowley drawls with obviously false sweetness as he resumes his seat in front of a series of black panels decorated with red neon flames, gesturing to the crimson sofa reserved for _Crossroads_ guests. Dean can’t help but notice that sitting on the sofa places him several inches _below_ the man behind the desk. He’s fairly certain that’s not a coincidence. Nor, of course, are the two large roadways painted on the stage floor and intersecting directly below Dean’s seat.

Crowley opens their conversation with the standard host-guest banter, asking Dean about the goals he scored in the latest Stars’ home game and giving Dean a lead-in to tell the funny anecdote he’d discussed with one of _The Crossroads’_ producers during his pre-interview, about the time he got separated from his teammate, New Orleans’ native Benny Lafitte, during Mardi Gras and somehow ended up on the parade float of an all-female krewe. Surprisingly, Crowley is sticking to all of their previously agreed upon conversation topics and Dean starts to relax, even finding himself genuinely chuckling at the Brit’s dry humor.

“So, Dean,” Crowley starts, folding his hands in front of him on the desk, “You’re well known for your bleeding heart. In fact, you’ve participated in and founded a number of charity organizations in your time with the NHL, the newest just a couple of months ago. Why don’t you tell us a little about this new venture.”

Widening his stance and leaning forward slightly, Dean begins to talk about his new pet project. “I’ve uh, talked about my background a bit in other interviews, so I’m not gonna go into it in detail here, but growing up, my family moved around a lot. That made finding a place to skate and practice hockey really tricky. I used to drag my dad to local gyms and make him sign up for the thirty-day trial membership. Or I’d make friends with local kids just so I could use their guest pass at the Y. It was…” Dean pauses for a moment to collect himself, looking down at his hands hanging folded between his knees. Telling this story in such a public way is hitting him much harder than anticipated. He clears his throat and pushes on, “It was a very isolating way to grow up. But no matter where we were, getting back in a gym or back on the ice, it felt like I was coming home.”

“I’m guessing this new charitable endeavor is an attempt to give other…transient children that same feeling of homecoming?” Though he makes sure to sound interested and engaged, Crowley’s eyes betray his boredom. His mind is clearly focused elsewhere, only giving Dean the remaining dregs of his attention.

Dean bristles internally but strives to keep his voice light. “Well, yeah, basically. _On The Move_ strives to provide displaced youth with access to recreation and athletics, anywhere in the country. By collaborating with both national and localized gym and recreational facilities, we’ve created a network of locations that will provide free access to all of their facilities and programs to displaced youth. Kids can enroll in the program at any one of the facilities and will receive a membership card that will be honored at any of our locations nation-wide.”

Seeing that Crowley’s eyes have glazed over, Dean shifts his focus to the camera, pasting on his most winning smile. “We’re just getting started, but the more donations we get, the more memberships we can provide. And if you can’t donate, getting the word out there by reaching out to your local gym and encouraging them to participate will be a big help too.”

“What inspirational work,” Crowley drawls flatly before looking into the camera. “You can learn more about _On The Move_ at the address on your screen and we’ve also posted the link on our website. Now Dean,” Crowley adds, barely even taking a breath before launching into his new topic, eyes suddenly alert again in a way that makes Dean feel off-kilter. “You’re ‘on the move’ quite a bit yourself these days, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Dean agrees easily, leaning back against the sofa cushions. “We’ve got games all over North America, plus I spend a lot of time traveling to and from my various charity locations and attending events and interviews like this one, of course, to promote them.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Crowley sympathizes…in the way that a snake might sympathize with the mouse it’s about to swallow whole.

“It can be,” Dean concedes with a nod, “but I wouldn’t change any of it.”

“Mmm, I bet some nights you barely make it back to your hotel before collapsing.”

“That’s definitely true,” Dean acknowledges with a chuckle.

“In fact,” Crowley presses on, ignoring Dean’s contribution to their ‘conversation’ entirely, “it seems that sometimes you’re so tired you don’t even make it back to your hotel room at all and have to borrow someone else’s clothes in the morning.”

A distant and somewhat blurry picture of a man of Dean’s height and general appearance wearing a gray AC/DC t-shirt as he climbs into the back of a black SUV appears on the large screen above the neon flames behind Crowley’s desk. Dean recognizes himself leaving Cas’ place this morning immediately, of course, though he quickly schools his expression to hide the myriad of emotions he’s feeling right now.

“For those at home, that lovely residence in the background is the Palo Alto mansion of famous, gorgeous, and available software developer, Castiel Novak. And,” Crowley pauses dramatically as the photo on the screen behind him changes, “This is the esteemed Mr. Novak wearing what appears to be the _same_ AC/DC t-shirt we just saw on our favorite hockey player.”

A picture of Cas flashes on the screen – a selfie he took before posting to Twitter mid-run – and he is indeed wearing that same AC/DC shirt. _Goddammit._

Rallying, Dean leans forward and squints as the two pictures reappear side-by-side. “I don’t know, Crowley. Are you sure that first picture’s me? Not that I’m sayin’ he’s not a handsome fella, but I’m pretty sure my face isn’t that blurry and misshapen. At least, not unless I’ve had a few drinks.” That gets a chuckle from several audience members and Dean smiles appreciatively.

“Ah, you’re right,” Crowley agrees. Too quickly. “That one is rather indistinct. _This_ one however, I’m fairly certain is you.” A much closer, much clearer picture of Dean from this morning, this time at that goddamn Starbucks across from his hotel, pops up on Crowley’s screen.

_Well, shit._

Dean takes a deep breath. Crowley’s got him and judging by the glint in the smug asshole’s eye, he knows it. Dean settles back against the sofa cushions. That’s no reason not to make him work for it though.

“You got me there, Crowley. I’m busted.” Lifting his arms and spreading his fingers wide, he adopts a sheepish grin, “I overpay for coffee.” He gets a few more chuckles from the audience when he adds, “What can I say? Sometimes a man just needs his triple-venti-no-foam-extra-whip-caramel-macchiato.”

“Mmm, especially when he’s on the way back to his hotel room at six-thirty in the morning, wearing another man’s sweatpants, I presume.”

 _Oh yeah_ , Dean thinks to himself. _Especially then._

He gives Crowley a smirk and a conceding half-nod. Apparently and unsurprisingly, that’s not enough confirmation for the British dick, who goes on, “You’ve been squirrely about your sexuality for years, of course, but Castiel isn’t nearly so coy.”

Crowley’s right. While Dean’s never _lied_ about his sexuality, he has definitely avoided the topic over the years, laughing it off or presenting himself as an ally when the occasional question was tossed his way, usually after being spotted out with Charlie and Dorothy, Jesse and Cesar, or one of his other queer friends. Professional sports in general haven’t been kind to the LGBT+ community and the only sports organization Dean can think of that might possibly be less welcoming of queer participants than the NHL would be Nascar.

Castiel Novak, on the other hand, has never been secretive about his pansexuality, confirming whenever asked that he’s “completely indifferent to gender or sexual orientation.” Because it’s _okay_ to be queer if you’re a household name who’s invented half the damn software people use on a daily basis. People don’t give a fuck who Cas is boning as long as they can still get their goddamn cat memes on his social media platforms, tell “Angel,” Novak Corp’s in-home assistant, to order more toilet paper without getting off the porcelain throne, and binge watch _Orange is the New Black_ on his streaming service.

With sudden and startling clarity, Dean realizes that _this_ is what Crowley’s been after all along. He’s known, or at least suspected, that Dean isn’t straight for years and now, finally, he’s pretty much secured the first ever coming out announcement of an active NHL player on _his_ talk show.

_Fuck._

In fact, Dean would bet the Stanley Cup he won two years ago that Crowley is the reason those pictures exist in the first place. He’s probably had someone following Dean for months now, ever since Dean finally agreed to an interview, just waiting for him to slip up. And Dean had been so careful… until last night. Last night, when Cas had been just as intoxicating as the whiskey. When they’d left the party together, instead of taking separate cars the way Dean normally would. When Dean had chosen an easily identifiable t-shirt to borrow, instead of the plain gray one sitting next to it.

Still slightly stunned, Dean zeroes back in on Crowley’s words. “Well, Dean, it appears you’re at a bit of a _crossroads_ here.” Did he really just…? Dean allows himself a full-body eye roll, pointing and nodding in agreement when someone in the audience lets out an audible groan.

“Unless, of course, you thought you were just hanging out as ‘bros,’” Crowley says as if he expects Dean to claim this very thing, voice dripping with disbelief. “In which case, I regret to inform your red-blooded all-American sensitivities they’ve just spent the night with an openly queer man.” Crowley pauses, taking a self-satisfied sip of his coffee while he waits for Dean’s rebuttal.

Dean bites his bottom lip, considering his options for a moment. Cas is out, he’s got nothing to lose if Dean comes clean about their activities last night. All of Dean’s close friends and family already know he’s bi, have for years. The only one that might be hurt by this is Dean and his career, well, and his agent, he supposes. Gabe though, has been preparing himself for this moment for years. Dean thinks he might actually be looking forward to taking on the “great big bag of dicks,” that is the National Hockey League.

Sighing internally, Dean makes his decision. Though this definitely isn’t how he’d envisioned this going and a huge part of him is still balking at having his hand forced, he knows his sexuality would have come out (pun so fucking intended) sooner than later anyway. It may as well be now. _But,_ if Dean Winchester is going to be railroaded into coming out on shitty, late-night national television, he’s going to do it the Dean Winchester way—as inappropriately as goddamn possible.

Just thinking of the epic bitchface Sam is gonna be sporting when this airs tonight warms Dean from the inside, giving him the courage to paste on a smirk and say, “Well that’s a relief. For a minute there I was worried you were gonna say Cas is straight, which would have made what we did in his kitchen this morning _really_ awkward.”

Crowley chokes on his coffee.

Dabbing at the coffee stain on his tie with a handkerchief (because _of course_ the posh fuck carries a handkerchief) as the audience erupts into cheers and whistles, Crowley sputters, “You…I…”

Dean smirks at the flustered Brit, suddenly enjoying himself. He can’t remember ever seeing Crowley speechless before.

Recovering his equilibrium, the talk show host manages to respond, “While that’s certainly a… vivid picture you just painted and which I’m sure we’re all thankful for, I wasn’t aware that software designers and NHL players travel in the same circles. Care to share how the two of you met?”

Dean smiles genuinely this time. “Some folks already know my little brother’s a fancy-pants lawyer in Silicon Valley. He graduated from Stanford Law a few years back and ended up sticking around Palo Alto and entering the _fascinating_ world of contract law.” Dean layers that last bit with plenty of sarcasm. “Anyways, every year his firm has this big charity gala and as it turns out, Novak Corp is one of the event sponsors. Cas and I met there and got to talkin’. We might not ‘travel in the same circles,’” Dean shoots Crowley a dark look, “but we both know what it’s like to live in the public eye. We hit it off, had a few drinks, and uh, one thing led to another.” Dean ends with a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

“I’m assuming this charity gala is the black-tie event you were attending in Palo Alto last night?” At Dean’s nod, Crowley continues, “So, this thing with Novak then, a one-night stand?”

“Oh, it was absolutely a one-night stand…” An ear-to-ear grin splits Dean’s face as he winks at the camera, “About three years ago.”

Speechless again, Crowley blinks at Dean, staring open-mouthed. Dean feels a burst of satisfaction that while he may have known Dean wasn’t straight, Crowley clearly didn’t realize Dean’s been in a committed relationship with one of the wealthiest and most famous men in America for the past three years, not that any of that matters to Dean. It certainly made it more difficult to keep their relationship under wraps though, something Dean is relieved to be done with. He’s actually a little lightheaded at the realization he and Cas won’t have to sneak around anymore. They can actually _go out_ in public together now, hold hands, hell, even _kiss_. They can have a normal relationship. Well, as normal a relationship as can be for two people living in the spotlight, that is.

Dean’s so overwhelmed with the possibilities he feels his eyes filling with tears and nearly misses Crowley tilting his head and listening to something over his earpiece before announcing, “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we’re about to be joined by a very special guest. Please welcome to _The Crossroads_ America’s, and apparently Dean Winchester’s, software-developing sweetheart, Castiel Novak.”

As the crowd goes wild, Dean spins, leaping to his feet as he spots Cas walking onto the far side of the stage, his clear blue eyes mirroring the same mix of emotions surging around inside Dean right now. As Cas walks toward him, looking somehow both casual and stunning in a simple black button-down and still sporting yesterday’s scruff, he looks happier than Dean’s ever seen him. Well, happier save once. Dean’s eyes flit down to the silver engagement band on his fiancé’s left ring finger, the one he put there just last night.

He’s suddenly even happier he decided to propose last night, at the same event where they’d first met three years ago. He’s grateful Cas will never have reason to think, for even a moment, that Dean only proposed, only took their relationship public, because he was forced to. Cas has never been anything but understanding of Dean’s reasons for keeping their relationship quiet, but Dean can tell by the joy and pride radiating from his fiancé right now how much this means to him. He’s glad that British dick hasn’t tainted this moment for them, despite his best efforts.

No, a half-rate late-night talk show definitely isn’t the venue Dean had in mind for announcing to the world he’s the luckiest son of a bitch this side of the Atlantic, but he can’t regret it, not with Cas walking toward him and looking at him like _that_. Somehow, even though he’s never had more than the most casual of conversations with his fiancé in public before, it’s the most natural thing in the world to reach for Cas as he nears, to cup his cheek as Cas steps into his space, to draw him into a tender, heartfelt kiss that ends with their foreheads pressed together, Cas’ long fingers gripping Dean’s wrist as he strokes a thumb over Cas’ stubbled cheek.

“You’re incorrigible,” Cas rasps, voice thick with emotion.

“I think I’m adorable.”

Chuckling softly, Crowley and his tacky T.V. show momentarily forgotten, the two men draw back far enough to look one another in the eye.

“Not that I’m not thrilled to see you,” Dean starts, “but what are you doin’ here, man?”

“Charlie called me as soon as those photos hit social media. I tried calling you, but you must have already been in the air.”

Suddenly remembering all the missed calls and messages he hadn’t checked, Dean nods.

“So, I hopped on the next available flight and headed straight here. I figured, one way or the other, you could probably use the moral support.”

“Okay, that explains how you got to L.A., but how did you get _here_?” Dean gestures to the surrounding set.

“Oh, that. I have a…friend,” Cas seems uncertain that’s the right word, “on the production team.”

Looking over Cas’ shoulder, Dean sees Meg grinning at him from off-stage. She tosses him a wink and Dean’s about to think he’s misjudged her…until he sees the lewd gesture she follows it up with. Shaking his head, he decides to save the story of how Cas stumbled upon a “friend” like Meg for another day.

For now, it’s enough to be holding his fiance’s hand as he gives a casual salute to Crowley (who looks positively apoplectic that his “guests” are leaving without his permission) before they head off-stage.

They make it all the way to Dean’s hotel without incident, but as they get climb out of Cas’ hired Land Rover, the lurking paparazzi descend, peppering the couple with flash photography and requests for a comment about the morning’s photos. Ignoring the barrage of questions, Dean begins pulling Cas toward the hotel doors when a surprisingly youthful voice causes them both to turn.

“Mr. Winchester! Mr. Novak!” A young blonde girl wearing an L.A. Kings’ jersey beneath a black leather jacket and too much eyeliner waves at them from the front of the gaggle of paparazzi, where she’s nearly being trampled into the railing lining the steps along the hotel entryway. She can’t be more than sixteen and Dean has no idea how she even made it to the front of the cut-throat group of photographers, though he suspects it may have something to do with the fierce, dark-haired young woman next to her, wearing a Stars’ jersey with Dean’s number eighteen and currently shouting “Back off,” at the encroaching paparazzi.

A threatening glower from Dean accomplishes what the girl’s shouts didn’t and the nearest paps back off enough to give the two girls breathing room.

Not wasting her chance, the blonde starts talking in a rush, “My name’s Claire and this is my girlfriend, Kaia and we’re not paparazzi. We’re high schoolers and we just really wanna talk to you. Obviously,” she adds with a grimace. Glancing at Claire’s jersey, Kaia cuts in, “I know she’s got crap taste in hockey teams, but don’t hold that against her. I don’t.” The brunette smirks before turning back to stare menacingly at the paparazzi some more. Worried Kaia might start throwing punches should one of the paps get too close to her girlfriend again, Dean offers Claire a hand, pulling her up and over the stair rail, as Cas does the same for Kaia. They usher the two girls through the hotel entrance, where doormen politely, but firmly close the doors behind them, shutting out the clamoring paparazzi.

“Anyways,” Claire continues with a fond eyeroll and tiny, pleased grin that reminds Dean forcefully of his own significant other, “we’re both hockey fans and players.”

“What positions?” Dean cuts in, because hey, it’s an important question.

“I’m a right winger and she plays goalie,” Claire answers promptly and Dean nods appreciatively.

“Look,” Claire continues, staring up at Dean with big blue eyes, “I know you don’t owe us anything or whatever, but it’d be kind of a huge deal to finally have an out NHL player, especially a really _good_ player, and well, you don’t suck.” Kaia elbows Claire in the ribs and the feisty blonde shoves her lightly in return.

Grinning and opening his mouth to reply, Dean gets his own elbow in the ribs from Cas and, okay, fair. Answering, “well actually, I do,” might have given Claire the confirmation she was looking for, but is definitely not appropriate to say to a minor. Or anyone, probably.

“I’ll tell you what, Claire,” Cas interrupts, “Dean will give you an exclusive and definitive statement, if you can promise one thing,” he pauses, looking seriously at the young blonde.

Claire seems to deflate. “That I don’t tell anyone, right?” she asks resignedly and Dean thinks he can actually _feel_ his heart melting into a puddle at this kid’s feet.

“Actually,” Cas says with a kind smile, “I was going to say if you promise to post it on every social media platform you have access to… _before_ _The Crossroads_ airs at eleven o’clock tonight.”

Claire and Kaia both light up visibly and Dean feels a slow smile spread across his own face. This is why his brilliant fiancé is a billionaire. Not only do they get to make a couple of kids’ day, by the time his interview with Crowley airs tonight, Dean’s status as the NHL’s only openly queer player will be old news.

“Are you kidding?” Kaia asks. “She’ll have this posted on every account she has, which is pretty much all of them, before we leave the building.”

“She’s not wrong,” Claire adds, raising her eyebrows as she turns to Dean. “You sure about this?”

Cas shoots Dean his own inquiring eyebrow raise, accompanied by a gentle smile. Sure, he kissed Cas on national television earlier today, but that’s still not quite the same as saying the words. Though he appreciates the out, Dean is done hiding. He’s more than ready for the world to know about him and Cas. He nods at Claire.

“I’m sure.”

“Alright,” Claire holds up her smartphone, “Ready when you are, Hasslehoff.”

Dean makes a face. “Just hit record, Hannah Montana.”

Sticking out her tongue, Claire taps a button on screen and shoots Dean a silent thumbs up.

Dean clears his throat.

“Uh, hi.”

Oh yeah. Good start.

He glances to the side at Cas, who smiles back reassuringly. Taking a deep breath, he tries again.

“I’m Dean Winchester, starting forward for the Dallas Stars. That’s hockey, for you folks who thought that was just a thing they did in Canada. I’m thirty-one years old, an Aquarius, and I like Led Zeppelin, my car, and feisty blue-eyed brunets of both genders.”

Dean pauses.

Looks down.

Smiles.

“Or at least, I did. Truth is, for some time now, there’s only been one brunet who’s caught my eye and last night, he agreed to marry me. I love you, Cas.”

Eyes shining, Cas steps into the frame. “I love you too, Dean. And I’m so, so proud of you.”

Feeling the blush spread across his features, Dean rolls his eyes, “Yeah, alright, you big sap.”

Laughing, Cas pulls him into a kiss, drawing syrupy coos from both girls. It’s only Cas’ sudden grip on his forearm that keeps Dean from reflexively flipping off two teenage girls and half of America.

Dean smiles against Cas’ lips.

Yeah. He’s one lucky son of a bitch.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that little story! Did you expect the twist? 
> 
> As always loves, thank you so much for reading! I'm hoping to be back soon with another COVID-19 quarantine fic, this time looking at the pandemic through the eyes of our canon TFW. So stay tuned, stay home, and stay safe, friends! 💖
> 
> If you'd like to reblog this little story and show me some Tumblr love, you can do so [here](https://a-mandala-rose.tumblr.com/post/614703848669462528).
> 
> PROMPT:  
> Dean is caught leaving Castiel’s home by paparazzi one morning (both are famous, you chose profession) wearing sweatpants and a hoodie that they've definitely seen Cas wear before. News outlets and social media run wild on this one night stand.  
> Dean is appearing on a talk show that morning to talk about his upcoming project.  
> They ask about the pictures.  
> "so, that was an interesting article that ran a few hours ago, are you up for discussing it?" Dean agrees  
> "so, we didn't even know you guys knew each other, where did you meet?"  
> "funny story we actually met at my brothers law firm. Cas's brother works with my brother. We met and decided to go for a few drinks to talk because we're both in the spotlight so it's nice just to chat to someone who knows, ya know?"  
> "so, was this just a one night thing, or...when did this happen?"  
> Dean finding this hilarious, just shrugs and says "oh, about 3 years ago now"


End file.
